


Starving for Love

by orphan_account



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Family Issues, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, Just Garrett being a creeper, NO rape, Read at Your Own Risk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-19 06:54:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19969840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: It's Abigail's birthday, but she's not very excited about it.





	Starving for Love

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE READ THE TAGS!!!!!

**Bloomington, Minnesota**

On Abigail’s 16th birthday, he seemed to be a lingering audience member in a darkened amphitheater.

She had gone to school, instead of spending the day home with her family like last year; the air in the house made her feel claustrophobic, the gravity and gloom pulling at the developing lines in the outer corner of her eyes into a worried crease above her ears. She couldn’t trust staying with Him for the day until her mother returned from her night shift, couldn’t fathom being within one meter of space by Him, dressed in her thin pajama bottoms and a tank top. She had no other house clothes to wear when it got hot. He preferred as little clothing as possible, anyway, and habitually monitored her credit card when she went shopping to make sure she didn’t purchase something…inconvenient. 

It was never to make her uncomfortable, He would assure her, He only wanted what was best. Because He knew best, and her mother didn’t, and that was what made Abigail so special to Him. That He could treat her like a doll, make sure she is comfortable while working through a nasty period, that she would come to Him every week to ask, Dad, when will our next hunt be? Abigail is one of a kind to Him. His wife, who may still be interesting _sometimes_ , is not what he desires now that He’s given birth to something beautiful; his design.

Abigail was promised something special on her 16th birthday, and when the special day came smack between the peak of fall and spring, she knew that her surprise would be something she didn’t want.

So, she took the packed, homemade lunch from the refrigerator that her mother cooked the night before. A beautiful white card with dried tulips from the garden hot glued on the front laid on top of the thermal lunch pouch. She tentatively took it between her fingers and unfolded the card.

 _Happy birthday, Abigail_ , it read.

What should have been her first thought after reading the card, she wondered. Her mother’s script was penned beautifully, the card simplistic, her very own personality inscribed in the swirly calligraphy. Endearing. Loving.

After seconds of staring at it, she decided to be grateful that her mother even remembered to spell her name correctly that year. She stuffed it in the tablet-sized pouch of her backpack hastily, glancing behind her just in case He had possibly woke early to her clomping boots across the wood floors, and watching Abigail silently, predatorily, as she accepted a gift he didn’t give her.

Just the usual paranoia.

Unlike her best friend’s—Marissa—relationship between her parents, Her father’s ugly attitude toward His wife was unkind and uninterested. Abigail and her father thought it was pitiful that her mother had started coming home earlier from work just to be near Him more often. He wasn’t that same, warm-hearted, thoughtless man she used to know anymore, and she seemed to be oblivious of the fact. His entire being, metaphysical and psychotic, froze the sheets to ice each night. He turned his back on her when they slept. He ignored her heated dreams as she fisted the sheets, wetness sopping between her once-slimmed thighs (fat gathered there, after she gave birth to Abigail), as she awoke with a start and a soft moan spilled from her lips and looked at Him lustfully in the dark of the night. He ignored every attempt at rekindling their marriage.

It’s family, she chastised herself, Mom’s love should feel like family. But it didn’t, and not even the homemade card that her mom had clearly made from scratch couldn’t sway her heart. Shaking her head to quell guilty thoughts, Abigail snatched her house keys from the kitchen island and raced outside to meet the Schurrs in the driveway before Marissa’s mother started honking.

* * *

To her shock—and dread—Abigail’s father pulled her out of class early that Friday to take her to her birthday surprise.

Her mom was sitting in the passenger seat, thin hair pulled in a playful messy bun, cheeks rosy and glittering in the spring light. Dad looked equally groomed, but his behavior was…weirder than usual. He held her mom’s hand during the ride and kept looking at Abigail in the rearview mirror—not that he wasn’t usually staring at her, he was always taking his fill of Abigail—however, his poker face left her in suspense, not able to read whatever he was trying to communicate through that forced, sudden domesticity. Abigail expected there to be some modicum of translation in those quick glances, his bobbing Adam’s apple but understood nothing.

Finally accepting that her father wouldn’t encourage her curiosity, she directed her attention to trees passing by on the road. Soda cans, plastic bags, and glass shards littered growing patches of flowers. They’d be raised in trash and mature to be filthy.

“Like me,” she mouthed to herself.

About forty minutes in, there was yet to be a conversation. When Abigail hung out with Marissa’s family, over ninety percent of the time there was noise. Potts and pans banging in the kitchen, her brother shouting excitedly over recorded varsity lacrosse games, Ms. Shurr’s bitter accent commuting softly through the paisley wallpaper of the living room as she rehearsed bible teachings on her bed. That morning when they drove up to Abigail’s house, Marissa immediately cranked up _16 Candles_ in the van, twisting her face into an obnoxious half-smile, and beckoned her forward with a crooning finger. Abigail had smiled and laughed through the whole song genuinely, feeling a break in her defenses, relief washing over her shoulders.

Suddenly, she felt an emotion she hadn’t felt since her father started killing people. It was love—for her age and for Marissa Schurr. Slowly, softly, her soft pink lips mumbled those lyrics fondly.

_16 candles in my heart will glow, forever and ever, for I love you so._

Distantly, in the corner of her mind, Abigail knew that those flowers would bloom to greatness one day, as she was on her 16th birthday that afternoon.

“I love you, Dad. I love you, Mom,” she said audibly. Her father couldn’t turn away from the steering wheel, but she felt him smile. Mom sighed through her nose, squeezing the calloused palm locked in her fingers.

“We love you too, Abigail,” she said.


End file.
